


Lust For Life

by VolxdoSioda



Series: Kinktober 2019 [7]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Kinktober Day 7: Leather, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, No Refractory Period, no Glauca/no Kingsglaive traitors au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 11:50:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20947868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolxdoSioda/pseuds/VolxdoSioda
Summary: Noctis looks damned good in leather. Titus appreciates.





	Lust For Life

It's blistering hot, humid enough to remind Titus of the forests of Galahd in summer. Hot enough to where the leather outfits of the Kingsglaive are working against them, rather than with them, and anyone with enough breathing space between them and the enemy hauls ass back to base quick as a snap to get water down them so they don’t pass out. 

Almost the entire fleet has tossed jackets aside and stripped down to their undershirts. It’s an impossible choice, but the Gods must be feeling merciful on some level, because for once the enemy coming at them are sluggish and lethargic; likely not prepared to deal with Lucian summers rolling into Lucian autumns.

Which is just as well. Titus wants every single one of them back alive and whole when they get out of this tonight. 

“How are we standing?” he asks Luche during one of the longer pauses between the waves of daemon and mechanical madness. The hair Luche is so proud of is plastered to his face, streaks of sweat dripping from his brow and temples every so often. Much like the rest of the veterans in this pile, he hasn’t made a noise of complaint the whole night, or even tried to do more than roll his sleeves up a little higher and occasionally mop at his face to prevent the sweat getting in his eyes. 

“So far, rather well,” Luche states. “The eastern side is giving us a bit of trouble, from the damage of the last battle we had. But we’re holding firm, sir.”

“Good. No casualties?”

“A few scratches here and there, a bloody nose from over-strain on Altius. But nothing else.”

Titus nods. He’ll never say it out loud, but he hates losing good men to the on-off fights Tenebrae and Niflheim provide. Lucis has held its own for the last ten years, as Regis maneuvers the board to his advantage as best he can. Replacing the warriors that have held the line for so long is difficult and tedious, but more than that, it's the fact that Titus is losing one of  _ his  _ men, one of the few that came from the same wider world as he, and now relentlessly strikes back against their usurpers in a desperate bid to reclaim what they’ve lost.

And maybe one day they’ll have it again. Titus himself might even be dead by that point. It’s hard to say. But they have to keep fighting. 

A shudder rocks the earth, great and jarring, and Luche is already barking orders into the comms even as Titus picks up a set of binoculars and looks to the distance.

“...Son of a bitch. It’s another Diamond WEAPON.” Fuck, but he hates these things. Hates their great massive bulk, how  _ useless  _ the Glaive area against it. How they have to call in one of the two people actually capable of taking it down - well, really the only person, given his father holds the Wall steady to keep them all safe.

“Call Omen,” he orders, and prays Noctis isn’t getting ready for bed this time. Somehow he doubts he’ll get lucky - he never does. 

x-x-x-x-x-x

It never takes Noctis long to arrive on the field, and this time is no exception. Either he was already in-route somewhere close by, or he knew something was going to happen tonight. In either case, he steps out of the vehicle hooded and cloaked in the black and red Kingsglaive uniform, and strides out towards where they’ve deposited the Diamond Weapon. It’s currently holding still, but it won't last for long. Titus has already cleared the field of Glaives. 

He feels it long before he sees it. Noctis pulls the energy from the area to him, calls it like a siren’s demise to man. And the energy all but runs to him, slow at first, and then in literal streaks of light plummeting from the skies. The energy builds and builds and builds--

And then Noctis forms it as a crimson orb within his hand, and sends it hurtling skyward. Up above the clouds it rises, and then comes the rush of glowing, pulsating red that slowly begins to come  _ down. _

A Summon. Not one of the Six - no, this creature is far  _ older,  _ and far choosier about who is allowed to bring it forth. Noctis told him once it was like holding the very heart of the world in his palm, that the arrival of this particular being leaves him drifting in the feeling of holding something incredibly fragile, something that will break and never be repaired if he fucks up. Nobody knows when it petitioned Noctis, but it did, and Noctis has not broken trust or faith between him and the creature.

Down, down the Summon drifts, a massive spear of crimson and orange. A long, winding tail, layers upon layers of feathers, a great glowing eye of yellow. 

Phoenix stares down at Diamond Weapon, suddenly made irrelevant and utterly  _ minute  _ by it’s arrival on the field. The Bird of Life spreads twelve pairs of wings,

spreads a tail reminiscent of a peacock’s fan, and

** _S i n g s._ **

X-x-x-x-x-x-x

The world winks out of existence, for a time. 

The song of the Phoenix heralds The End of All Life, which is why Noctis only brings it to the field when he has no choice. Noctis himself is protected by the God’s own blessing bestowed upon his skin in the form of an elegant brand upon his back, twelve red wings that glow when the bird is summoned.

But the rest of them are vulnerable to the effects of the song. Titus would almost say they’ve gotten used to the sudden cut-strings sensation that comes as the bird lifts its voice, but he would be lying. Time goes wonky, and Titus feels a little like there’s a low-grade vacuum hose attached to something in between his heart and his guts, and if he moves wrong it’ll get tugged lose and never brought back. When the last of the song trails out, and the glow of red vanishes from the field, there is no more Diamond WEAPON. 

There’s also no more Niflheim or Tenebrae, every last ship having hit the earth - the MTs piloting it blow up. Niflheim’s greatest asset is its worst nightmare has been cut short. The Tenebraen soldiers are either dead or gone, and the daemons are little more than splatters across the field. 

Hands cup his face, coaxing him to sit up, and lean on a smaller, slightly body as water gets pushed to his lips. “Drink,” Noctis urges, and Titus does - they always do this after, it’s as much routine as the summoning is. It’s why Noctis’ field name is  _ Omen. _

Once Titus is sure he’s not about to fall over and die, Noctis moves on to the other glaives. Water helps dissipate the song, at least when imbued with Noctis’ natural magic and turned into something kind of like a potion, but not. He’s not restoring anything, because they haven’t lost anything. It’s more of a pick-me-up, one Titus is immensely grateful for.

They all climb back into the vehicles when it’s over, and Titus automatically puts himself in the corner by the window. Noctis seats himself on one of Titus’ thighs like he belongs there, and nobody says a word - it was funny the first time. Less funny after, when the Glaive seemed to come to the collective realization that Noctis was a walking God-summoner who could end worlds and bring about the apocalypse if he wanted to. Now it’s just something they do - the vehicles don’t have room for anyone else to squeeze in, so Noctis sits in his lap and plays on his phone while they ride back into Insomnia.

And here now is another tradition, as they all climb out and begin to separate out. Titus will call them tomorrow evening to post future assignments, but for now everyone leaves without much fanfare, all eager to get home and rest. And Noctis, casual as anything else, wraps a hand like an iron around Titus’ wrist, and tugs him back towards his quarters. 

X-x-x-x-x-x-x

The leather of the Kingsglaive uniform looks good on Noctis. It fits him like a glove, all the lovely curves and quiet strength in his body further enhanced by the gleam of the black in the low light of Titus’ bedroom. But it looks even better on the floor, as Titus kisses his way down Noctis’ throat, relishing in every soft noise he makes, even as his hands shake. 

He’ll admit he’s got a thing for powerful people. When it was Regis on the field instead of Noctis, Titus always wound up hard as a rock coming back home, spreading himself open in the shower with toys and fingers to scratch an itch he would never be able to sate with the person he wanted. But Noctis craves physical touch like a drug, demands his lovers satisfy him and hold him. The few times Titus has made the mistake of trying to be a gentlemen or hold back, he’s wound up tied up and bound helpless, unable to do anything more than take as Noctis rode him into the next century. Sometimes that was okay, but tonight Titus needs that contact as much as Noctis himself does.

“Leave the boots,” he hears himself gasp, as if from underwater. And yeah, he’s got a thing for Noctis in leather, and the boots are the ultimate weak spot there, clinging to strong calves in a way that makes Titus pant. 

“Get up here, then,” Noctis orders between kisses, all but climbing into Titus’ arms, wrapping one hand around his hair and kissing him hard enough to bruise. Titus welcomes it, all but throws Noctis onto the bed to pin him with his weight. Grips where the leather hides that delectable ass away, and debates what he wants to do - whether taking all this off is worth it, or if he should just rut up against his Prince like the animal he feels like.

Noctis makes the choice for him. “The hell are you waiting for, a formal invitation?” He gets the laces undone on the pants, and then shoves his hand inside, biting aggressively at Titus’ neck as he grips his length, running a thumb over the thick vein beneath, tracing the crown, and then reaching further down, just barely grazing his balls. “C’mon, c’mon,  _ fuck me already,  _ dammit Titus--”

He doesn’t need much more persuasion than that, given Noctis literally has him by the balls. He shoves both of their pants down just enough to get what he needs, grabs the lube and starts working Noctis open. He’s not gentle, not when it feels like his blood is burning and he’ll die if he doesn’t get inside his Prince  _ right this second,  _ and Noctis doesn’t seem to much care or notice, doing just as much clawing and snarling as any wild creature out there. 

Titus lines himself up after only three fingers and slams inside so hard Noctis screams out, and the headboard hits the wall. Yet all Noctis does is demand  _ “Harder, you bastard,”  _ so Titus grips his body with a titan’s strength and stops holding back. 

Every move of their bodies slams the headboard against the wall, making it impossible to mask what they’re doing, but for once Titus doesn’t care who hears, or who knows. Noctis cries out, screams his name and claws at him, and Titus knows he’s got to be hurting him, but it doesn’t matter, not when Noctis’ body grips him like a vice, not when he’s biting and kissing and coming apart so beautifully at the seams, and not when Titus’ only desire is to chase the high of the moment. 

The first orgasm cracks through him like a whip across the back, a startled breath the only indication of what’s happening as he forces Noctis further into the bed and grinds himself even deeper into the velvet channel while Noctis wails like he’s being murdered. But once isn’t nearly enough, not even close, so as soon as that’s done Titus is right back to fucking his Prince’s brains out, the sensation of his own spend coating him only speeding up the process. Noctis comes nearly half a minute later, shrieking as he tightens down on Titus’ cock, milky white strands shooting out to cover his stomach and shirt. There’ll be no saving that now, so Titus casually reaches out with a hand and rips it right down the middle, pulling it off and tossing it somewhere off to the side.

_ “Fuck,”  _ Noctis whispers, wrapping arms around his neck. He’s still just as hard as Titus is, adrenaline junkies the both of them, fucking their way through nightmares and PTSD like they don’t even care. “Again, again, again--”

Titus pulls out and flips Noctis over, mounts him and pushes his cock right back in to that slick heat, catching right back onto the pace again even as the new position makes him groan. Noctis fights his grip, but Titus snarls and fucks him that much harder. He’s crying as he comes a second time, spurting across the bed and leaving a mess behind. He’s flagging, but still hard enough for at least one more go. It usually takes three or four orgasms to work themselves down, and this time is no exception. 

So Titus lets himself spend again, relishing in the broken sound Noctis makes as he’s filled again, enough to where he’s dripping with seed. “You bastard,” he accuses as Titus picks him up and leans himself back against the wall to force Noctis to ride him. Unfortunately, that finally means losing the pants. “You didn’t put a condom on.”

“Nope.” And he’s not going to. Not when the primal part of his brain cheers for every marking he makes on the Prince’s skin, every load he dumps into that beautiful body. He’s high on the knowledge that Noctis can summon gods and cut entire armies down, but he lets Titus fill him up like a balloon, and all he does is whine about it. It’s a heady sensation that goes right to his cock. “C’mon baby boy, your turn to do some work.” He gives one last thrust and then stops, settling his hands on Noctis’ hips. Noctis whines, but almost immediately starts bouncing himself.

The pace isn’t quite so aggressive, but it still feels amazing. Noctis watches him with dark eyes as he moves, and Titus strokes hands across his thighs and back, fingers just grazing the sensitive edges of the scar on his back. He comes just like that, shivering and mewling as his cock finally wilts, the last jet of release little more than a sluggish trickle across Titus’ body. Titus tightens his grip and uses Noctis’ body as a fleshlight to reach that edge for the last time, groaning quietly when he finally does. 

The bed is a mess of cum and sweat and scattered clothes, and they should probably get up and bathe, but all he does is pull out of his Prince and settle him by his side, face tucked into his ribcage. It’s sweltering in the room, the night air utterly useless in cooling them down. 

“Bathroom,” Noctis mumbles. “Should get up.”

“Then get up.” His own legs aren’t quite ready to hold him yet - he has to keep reminding himself during times like this that he’s not a young man anymore, even if his ability to keep up in the bedroom post-battle makes him think so. 

“Nmg comfortable.”

“Then don’t.”

“Sticky.”

“Make up your mind.”

Noctis cracks an eye open, gazing up at him with something Titus might call  _ exasperated fondness  _ if he were addled. “Gonna be stuck to your bed forever.”

“Then I guess I’d better tell your father--”

And suddenly Noctis has strength aplenty to get up. “That shower sounds  _ really  _ good, we should probably go do that.”

Titus snickers, unable to help himself. The thought of telling the King in any capacity  _ I’m fucking your son  _ is terrifying, but it’s little moments like this that make it all worth it.

Well. That and the sight of Noctis in the remains of his uniform. That makes it worth it too.


End file.
